Layman Scripts
by Pseudinymous
Summary: Danny Fenton is in a coma. It was Jazz's turn to guard the portal, but she'd failed. She'd let a ghost through, based on nothing other than the heartfelt feeling that the ghost was being sincere. So what is she doing considering letting a second one through? Her compassion might well give her the first lead she's seen in over two years, but it's also going to cause some problems...
1. A Dangerous Partnership

**Author's Note:  
**Am I a little bit obsessed with the Ghostwriter? Maybe… shut up, he's cool even if he doesn't get that much attention. ;P

Anyway, this floated around in my head for a bit while I was studying for my exams, and I decided to get it down in my free moments. This is MUCH less cracky than some other non-fanfic things that I'm writing at the moment. You can expect this to be fairly serious, but I'm also aiming for light-hearted as well. How could a story that features Jazz and the GW as main characters not be just a _little _light-hearted, anyway?

As usual, PP never happened. Criticism is welcome, I'm 20 guys, I think I can handle it. :P Not sure if I will romantically pair anyone up, but at the same time I'm Not Saying No.

**The Usual Blanket Disclaimer that Probably Would Not Stop a Real Lawyer:  
**I do not own Danny Phantom or any related characters.

* * *

**Layman Scripts  
**A fanfic by Pseudinymous

~ **1** ~  
_- A Dangerous Partnership_ -

* * *

The Ghostwriter knew it wasn't a good idea.

There were traps, said the whisperings. Terrible things would happen to those unable to defend themselves, and those who were? Even they came back nursing their wounds, howling at their failures. Mind you, most ghosts capable of defending themselves were also seeking death and destruction. The Ghostwriter sought none of that; he just wanted to visit.

But he'd left all of this too long. If he'd wanted to visit earth, he should have done it two years ago, when the city that portal came out in wasn't laden with painful traps and terrible consequences. When the ghost hunters were mere bumbling fools. But no! He _had _to have the urge now, when it was treacherous and when the stakes were so high.

Being stuck in a library for so long could do that to you, though. Surrounded by fictitious works of both your own and others' creation just isn't enough; a need to see things in the flesh, to be your own story… that seeps its way into your mind as well. And the Ghostwriter knew this better than just about anyone else he could think of; you sat there, being your little introverted self, having fun every day with the things you created and ignoring reality at every point – sometimes even rewriting it a bit to suit your needs. It was a joyful life… but _it wasn't really a life_. In more ways than one.

The part of him that knew that this wasn't truly living was the one urging him to take that step out into the open, into the Old New World. It wasn't dangerous to what he used to be, but _very _dangerous to what he was now.

The portal was before him. He could make this venture whenever he wanted, but he could also turn around and go home. Both were viable. Both had reasoning. But some parts of that reasoning were more rational than others.

He didn't close his eyes, and he flew through.

The writer was confronted with a sea of ectoplasmic ooze, but certainly not in the same way the Ghost Zone radiated its strange energy. This ectoplasm was refined, different, experimented upon. All of this also wasn't particularly surprising when one realised this was Jack and Madeline Fenton's basement, but nevertheless it made the Ghostwriter's blood run cold… if by blood you meant ectoplasm, and by cold you meant _freeze_.

The alarm didn't go off immediately, so he assumed he was here on a lucky day; obviously it'd been turned off. Without the blinding lights or blaring alarms he took his time, invisibly, and absorbed the place. In its own way it was a source of inspiration, unlike what he'd ever seen in person before. Every part of it was worth observation. In the absence of any apparent threat, the Ghostwriter peered in draws, opened up cabinets, and inspected some things that he felt wise to _never, ever_ touch. He looked up and down and sideways and then he turned around and-

"Th-that's an ecto-gun barrel…" he stammered, staring into the glowing metallic abyss. The person behind it shoved the end into his nose, knocking the ghost's glasses into a position quite askew. "Uhh… oh, oh God."

"You seem awfully scared for a _ghost_," said the person behind that awful contraption. Flowing red hair could be seen on either side of the gun, and just above it a woman's face twisted into anger. "Didn't think I could see you while you were invisible, huh? Someone hasn't kept up with the times."

"H-how?" the Ghostwriter managed, mind whirring into defence mode. Defence mode consisted entirely of _how can I escape_, and wasn't particularly helpful when that gun would likely go off at the smallest sign of a wrong movement. "Look, I just wanted to have a look around, I'm not here to cause problems!" he began protesting, which seemed like the only reasonable option. "Can't we- how about we just talk about this for a second, okay? _Without_ the gun?"

The girl, whom the Ghostwriter suddenly recognised as a much older-looking Jasmine Fenton to what he remembered, did not lower her weapon. "The gun stays," she declared, making no attempt to clear up how she could see the invisible plane, "And you're going right back into the Ghost Zone."

"But… I just wanted to have a look at the Real World," the Ghostwriter managed. "It's been years. Surely you're not going to begrudge me that, child?"

"You're a ghost," she said firmly, robotically. "I can't let you through."

There it was. An uncertainty. A crack in her hardened exterior. The Ghostwriter pounced on it like a cat on a cornered mouse. "Do you really believe I'm inherently evil? That all ghosts seek to destroy?"

Jazz remained silent.

"… I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to hurt me, either. Maybe I am a ghost, but I'm still just a _person_."

It was working. _Somehow_, he'd managed to get through to her just a little bit. Not completely, though, because although the gun had been removed from his face and that look of pure hatred had dissipated into honest insecurity, the ecto-gun remained pointed squarely at him.

"I let a ghost through once," Jazz began. "She told me that she just wanted to see the sun set."

This time the Ghostwriter remained very, very silent. He didn't like where this was going.

"When I stopped pointing this gun at her, she broke both of my arms, put my brother in a coma, and disappeared."

The Ghostwriter's mind felt like it had jammed in position. He knew the family well, both through his poem and the rumblings of the ghosts that lived around him. Jazz Fenton had only one brother – the infamous Danny Phantom – and when the Ghostwriter thought about it, he hadn't seen or heard of the boy in a _very _long time.

"… The Phantom boy is in a coma?" he hazarded, carefully avoiding the topic of what had put him there. "I never knew. I just assumed I'd shut myself in too long to hear about him."

"Shut yourself in?"

"I read and write too much. As a consequence I very rarely have need to venture outside," he sighed. "I was hoping to get away with it. When you've been in the same place all alone for that long-"

"-Sometimes you just have to get outside…" Jazz finished, before lowering an eyebrow. "I've never heard of a ghost that just reads and writes books."

"You're looking at one. We're not all barbarians, you know! Your brother certainly wasn't, was he?"

Defensive mode leapt to the rescue. "Of course he wasn't!" Jazz rallied. "He was a good person, and he didn't deserve what he got for it! He protected _all _of us!"

The Ghostwriter decided to leave the silence right where it was. This was an old tactic he'd learnt from reading far too many novels; if one person is silent for too long, the other will often just start trying to fill it all up, as if a vacuum was taking words right out of their mouths.

"_Why_ should I trust you over any other ghost I've caught?" she questioned, right on queue.

Leeway. Not particularly good leeway, mind you – it was the type of leeway that challenged one to prove something impossible, and he was fairly sure that Jazz was aware of that. Somewhat defeated, the Ghostwriter drooped mid-air. "I can't prove that to you; it's impossible to guarantee my intentions, short of you finding some way to read my mind."

More silence. Jazz stirred uncomfortably.

"What if… we made an agreement?"

"An agreement?"

"Go back in there and bring back a book you've written. After that, you'll let me tag you with a satellite tracker so I can come and hunt you down if you're lying to me."

The Ghostwriter looked into the girl's eyes in such a way that suggested he didn't quite believe her, that in her current state of mind getting off with just this seemed too good to be true. In fact it probably was, as that ecto-gun was still primed and ready to cause some pretty severe, painful damage; he was going to put his bets on the idea that there'd be some hidden clauses to this shaky agreement. But the world outside… the writer realised that after all these years, he'd give quite a lot to see it.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Go." Jazz commanded, training that ecto-gun on him all the way back into the portal, until he was gone. The Ghostwriter, hardly able to believe what was happening, flew back home as fast as he could.

Jazz, on the other hand, could hardly believe what was happening either. What on earth was she _doing_, giving a ghost a pass with just a satellite tag? Her parents would be entirely against it. Even _she_ was entirely against it, to a certain extent. No, she didn't believe all ghosts were inherently evil, but at the same time, every one that she'd ever seen had at least enough power to do some damage to the city or its people. Why was this ghost who looked like a wireframe wrapped up in a coat and glasses any different? The only way complete safety could be guaranteed was if the Ghost Zone was entirely quarantined from the Real World….

But there was something about him that seemed a lot more… docile than other ghosts. Even though that one other female ghost she'd let through had seemed docile at the time, somehow this one felt a lot more sincere, trustworthy. Was that a potentially dangerous trait she should look out for when guarding the portal?

Jazz had never felt so confused about herself in her life.

Uselessly, she looked at the ecto-gun she was supposed to be protecting the city with. With the Fenton Portal Genetic Lock near-permanently damaged, guarding the place in shifts was all she and her parents could manage, and was a duty well-supported by those living in Amity Park. Ironically, the ghost attacks had died down a lot since Danny had been defeated and left in a coma, as if most of them were simply coming through to get back at him.

"This is such a mess." Jazz scowled, more at herself than anyone else. "I should have just told him never to come back."

She put the ecto-gun on the table. Her thoughts zoomed back to Danny, who still lay lifelessly in a bed in the Amity Park General Hospital, with no sign whatsoever of waking up. None of the doctors could determine why he was in a coma. A few kept suggesting a knock to the head, but couldn't find a shred of evidence for the trauma. Fenton gadgets had even stopped 'malfunctioning' around him, too; it was like he'd taken a trip through the Fenton Ghost Catcher and his ghost half had taken all of his consciousness with it, spirited away somewhere by that awful, filthy _liar _of a ghost. How she'd done it, Jazz would never know.

And after all of this, Danny's secret still lay with her, Sam and Tucker, who mutually agreed not to tell his parents. In any case, they had very little proof – with his ghost half seeming to have completely disappeared, there was no definitive way for them to show Maddie and Jack who he was. Circumstantial evidence wouldn't hold. The idea that anyone could be half-ghost was just too far-fetched to hold any water without proof staring one right in the eyes.

It was times like now that she _really _needed Danny back. Her little brother understood more about ghosts than she or her parents ever would.

… And suddenly, it dawned on her.

Ghosts would always know a whole lot more about how _their _world and _their _physics worked, simply because that's what they existed with. If a nonviolent ghost that wrote his days away could exist, then why couldn't a philosopher ghost? A mathematician? Physicists, scientists, _thinkers_. They all died at some point, didn't they? Hell, even former ghost hunters…

The writer, she could _use _him. Even if he didn't know what to do or what had happened to Danny, even if he was a self-declared shut-in, thinkers tended to know other thinkers. It was like Nikola Tesla and Mark Twain. Perhaps it was a lead. A dangerous, perilous lead. Jazz handled the ecto-gun once more, putting the safety on and thumbing the trigger thoughtfully. How far was she willing to go with this? How much _could _she trust this ghost? Trust, after all, takes years to create and just seconds to destroy…

Jazz screwed up her eyes and told herself "The tracking device will be sufficient.".

"Sufficient for what?"

Startled, the girl's head snapped to attention. The ghost had returned, clutching a leather-bound untitled book within his cold, grey hands. He was looking amiably at her – much more friendly, it seemed, when he wasn't being threatened at gunpoint. Jazz decided to put the gun down on the table… after all, trust went two ways, didn't it?

_Oh, these are dangerous waters you're getting into._ Jazz's mind warned. She chose to ignore that warning.

"Well, sufficient to… keep you in line. In case you try anything sneaky," said Jazz, awkwardly. "Aghr, I'm sorry for putting you through all of this, but so many ghosts attack us that it's almost impossible to determine good from bad anymore! I hate it. My parents think all of you are here to destroy everything but I _know _that's not true. I've seen ghosts display conscience and morals and all sorts of things that mum and dad refuse to accept. It's all fear, and it's _not fair_. I feel so awful about it. I've probably turned around and even attacked so many of the good guys, it's terrible…"

The Ghostwriter was utterly taken aback – on the other hand, he now understood a _lot _more about why the girl was going to let him pass at all. She was doomed to a guilty conscience no matter what she did; either by not properly defending the city, or by refusing entry to those like him, who wanted nothing more than peace and would actively defend it, if necessary. Or at least, they would hide from the fighting, which made them no worse than most of the citizens anyway.

She looked like she had something else to say. He locked eyes with her, and waited.

"I-I need to ask something else of you," said Jazz, looking a little sick. "I'll let you through if you help me get my brother back!"

It was a need so great that it could completely transcend just about any negotiation; a sister's love for her brother and her desperation to see him conscious again. She'd give up a _lot_ just for the chance of seeing that, and it would be an opportunity to earn her trust unlike any other. Sometimes stories began with requests like these, the writer mused…

… On the other hand, it wasn't the easiest of requests.

"I'll help if I can," said the writer. "But I'll be honest, I haven't the faintest clue on how to bring someone out of a coma. If my keyboard was working properly, maybe, but it's not functioning the way it's supposed to at the moment."

"Your keyboard?"

The Ghostwriter stopped himself in his tracks, and thought about what he was going to say. "Err… it's a special artefact. As for what it's supposed to do… let's talk about that another time, okay?"

"I'd like to talk about it now," said Jazz, unforgivingly. The writer sagged a little, and looked away.

"Don't get me wrong, I don'tuse it in a dangerous way."

Jazz's expression worsened.

"I use it to fix things, sometimes make things a bit more interesting. … Sometimes to teach certain individuals a lesson or two…"

"… But what does it _do_?" Jazz insisted. The Ghostwriter gave up.

"It combines with my power to rewrite aspects of reality," he sighed. "I know that sounds incredibly dangerous."

Her expression was unreadable again – at least to the writer, anyway, who had interacted with precious few people even in his living days – and she seemed to freeze where she sat. As a result he had little idea of how, exactly, one was supposed to handle people who were reacting like this, either. A few possibilities popped into his mind, but none of them were particularly preferable or even remotely appropriate. If they were both characters in a story he was writing, everything would have been _fine, _he'd have known exactly what to do! But unfortunately, this was real life and he knew little of what to do. So he decided just to pretend he didn't notice her discomfort and skipped ahead.

"You said you wanted to put some sort of tracker on me?"

"O-Oh, yes, I did," said Jazz, standing up quite suddenly. "Err… it might hurt a bit. It wasn't exactly designed with total comfort in mind."

The Ghostwriter nodded reluctantly. After Walker's hellhole of a prison, he could deal with pain. The prison visit, however, was something he'd really prefer to keep out of the discussion.

Jazz circled around him and came to a central table, where a much less lethal-looking weapon sat. On the outside it appeared to be a modified dart gun; obviously it stored some sort of technological tracking darts, although the writer would freely admit that he hadn't seen much technology other than his keyboard and what Technus occasionally carted past the library. Hesitantly, the ghost hunter's daughter picked it up. "You ready for this?"

The Ghostwriter nodded, and put the book he had brought with him down where the modified dart gun had previously lay. "Yes, just try to pick a spot without so many nerves."

"An arm will do," Jazz declared, brandishing the gun carefully. "Clench your teeth! … And please try not to scream."


	2. Leeway

**Author's Note:  
**You know what's really annoying? The awkward way that FFN likes to randomly delete spaces between words sometimes. It's always fun trying to find them, because I never seem to be able to until after the darn thing is posted. *sighs*

My exams are over, yee! So more chapters for the tiny little following this story has. But you know what? That's okay. I'm enjoying it. Also, this felt like it took a really long time to write. Probably because it ended up needing a very different second draft as well as a pretty severe edit (due to the original chapter being written when I was so sleep deprived that I'm not actually sure I was a functional human being at the time). But, it's all good now!

* * *

**Layman Scripts  
**A fanfic by Pseudinymous

~ **2** ~  
- _Leeway _-

* * *

His eyes streamed, and his face burned. _That_ was painful beyond _description_. Not even Walker's guards seemed able to inflict anything that even came close.

"I'm so sorry!" Jazz pleased, "Something went a little wrong when I was inserting it, I don't think the dart gun's been used in forever! It's not really supposed to be that bad, I'm so, _so _sorry!"

Lower jaw wobbling slightly, all the Ghostwriter could manage was a very strained "_It's okay…_", although he honestly felt more like asking the girl to saw his arm off after such grievous bodily harm, as it might very well have lessened the agony he was in. It'd been the smallest dart, too; really it should have been a piece of cake, like having a simple injection, but it was so far from it that it had taken the writer completely unawares and crippled him like a punch to the gut. The pain didn't end after the dart had successfully inserted the tracker underneath his skin, either; it _throbbed_, and had decided that it would continue to throb with untold veracity.

Jazz put the dart gun down with an amount trepidation, as if the safety might randomly flick off and take out one of the basement walls. Then she quickly looked around, located a likely-looking draw, and dug out the device's receiver from the endless abyss. The Ghostwriter peered over it sceptically.

"You know, the Ghost Zone is bottomless but I think that might just go down further."

"Mum and dad's organisation skills do leave a bit to be desired," sighed Jazz, booting the device up. "O-oh. It's asking for a name. … What _is _your name, anyway?"

"All of the other ghosts just call me the Ghostwriter," he replied, still clutching his arm in the hope that it might become slightly more bearable. Jazz didn't seem entirely convinced.

"I meant your _real _name. You must've had one, once."

The Ghostwriter thought about this for a moment. "Well _yes_, just about everyone has a real name stashed away somewhere, but heavens child I haven't gone by it since I was twelve! Even my parents eventually just started calling me Writer. You might as well, if you want to call me anything."

"It's not really a _name_…" Jazz insisted.

"It's still a noun," said the writer, indignantly. "Isn't that close enough for you?"

Jazz crossed her arms, shutting the draw with a _hmph_. "Well, what's wrong with your real name?"

A few bad memories passed through the writer's head. "Let's not even _begin _with what was wrong with it."

The girl appeared to be deciding between two very valid points, tapping her fingers on her face in thought. Had the Ghostwriter known anything about Jazz's history with psychology and psychoanalysis, he'd have realised that she was pondering about whether it was better to psychoanalyse him now while she had him here, or whether she should leave it until later when she'd gained more of his trust. Alas, he was ignorant of this fact, and merely stared a little blankly at her, waiting for the girl to make some sort of next move. She didn't, and suddenly he felt an overwhelming urge to avoid eye-contact.

Jazz had meanwhile mentally crossed over to a different topic, and had resumed her original seat at the side of the room. "… Look," she began. "If you're going to helping me investigate this, it might be better for both of us if you were a little more… _human_."

This brought his attention right back to Jazz, expression somewhere between surprised and flabbergasted. "And _how_, exactly, do you expect me to achieve that?" the writer scoffed. "I'm not your brother. I don't have a human half. I can't just _change back_ whenever I feel like it! I'm-"

"-stuck like that, I know." Jazz finished. She had an annoying habit of completing other people's sentences, he noticed. "I'm talking about a device though, that we used to use with Danny."

The Ghostwriter leant forward mid-air, intrigued. "Oh? Will this be as painful as the last one?"

"No! … No." Jazz confirmed. "It's just a wristband, Danny's friend Tucker and I… we made it for him together using some of my parents' technology. Originally it was just meant to hide him from all the detectors, but there was a bit of a side-effect that stopped him from glowing when he was in ghost form."

"It… really?"

"Completely." Jazz confirmed, trying to look as confident as possible when the only entity that had ever tested it was a bit too unique for generalised use. "And, well… it's not like he has much need for it at the moment, anyway."

The Ghostwriter thought about this as he straightened his glasses – still crooked, he realised, from when the girl had been shoving an ecto-gun in his face. It was an odd opportunity, certainly one he hadn't expected to run into out here. But _still _problems remained, and he grimaced when he realised that just because it got rid of the ghostly glow, didn't mean it would be fixing his skin tone. The pointed ears and teeth could be hidden effectively enough, if he made an effort to comb his hair so it sat the right way and perhaps if he tried speaking as little as possible, but you couldn't just change your whole _complexion_.

"I assume the goal is to allow me to walk around outside without having to be invisible. I'm not exactly sure I'm going to look human enough for that…"

"Just say you have argyria." Jazz explained, thoughtfully. "I read about it once, it causes your skin to turn grey or blue. It's caused by excessive silver consumption, and other than that it's kinda harmless."

What use he would ever have had for consuming silver, the writer really didn't know. On the other hand, it seemed like as good an excuse as any… so long as he didn't get too far into the implications of how the silver had gotten into his body in the first place.

"So… that's a yes?" Jazz hesitated. Eventually, distractedly, the writer nodded. "Hey… do you hear that?"

"Hear wha-" said the Ghostwriter, but upon actually using his ears, he realised. "Someone's upstairs?"

Jazz's face went from honest thought to creeping horror. "Mum must be home early!" she cried, leaping out of her chair and quickly moving to dive through her handbag, which the writer hadn't noticed sitting next to her chair. And then she hissed, "Writer, fix up your hair!"

Little time was wasted. He could hear the footsteps on their approach to the basement, and as he warily looked over Jazz's ailing progress at finding the device, wondered whether he should just disappear and take his chances outside, instead.

"Hi sweety!" called Madeline Fenton cheerfully, thankfully from the blind spot at the top of the basement stairs. "Did you turn anything back today?"

"Just the Box Ghost again, mum!" Jazz called back, finally having dug out the object of interest. She hurled it at her inadvisable companion so quickly and without warning that it hit him in the face, although thankfully he caught it before it had chance to fall to the ground. It was working, and they were safe.

Or, as Jazz quickly realised, not quite _entirely _safe. "_Writer_!" she growled. "_Use your feet_!"

The Ghostwriter wasn't sure if he'd been seen, and nonetheless felt a bit ashamed for forgetting that perhaps _not_ floating in the air would allow him to pass for human _much _more easily. As he looked warily over into the ghost hunter's eyes, he dreaded the surprised look on her face.

"Oh!" said Maddie. And, with a statement that saw the writer visibly deflate with relief, she continued "Jazz, who is this? What's he doing in our lab?"

"A friend!" said Jazz, more quickly than she thought she could speak. "His name is…" _thinking, thinking…_ "John."

The ghost shot her a stare that suggested that, if anything in the world, his name most _definitely _wouldn't be John. Maddie looked him up and down and then back up again, her eyes eventually resting on his. More than anything else, she seemed concerned. "Are you _feeling _all right?" she queried. "Your complexion's terrible."

"I'm fine," replied the writer stiffly. "It's a medical condition. _Everyone _asks, I'm afraid."

"Oh," said Maddie, apparently a little incredulous. "So… you'll be okay then? You're as pale as-"

"-a ghost, I know. That's what I keep getting told," the Ghostwriter sighed, stone-faced but suppressing the eye-roll. "Fortunately it only affects my skin."

Maddie tilted her head. "What's it called?"

"Argyria." Jazz cut in, quickly. "Mum, come on! He's a guest, not a science project! It can be really psychologically damaging for a person to be constantly questioned on a condition like this."

A moment of blankness passed over Maddie's face, followed by a brief look of embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot my manners." she excused herself, coughing slightly. "John, dear, would you like to come upstairs and have some tea?"

The Ghostwriter froze. "Um… I'll come upstairs, but no tea thank-you. I'm not a fan."

"How about a cup of coffee then?" Maddie suggested. "Or a glass of lemonade? Water?"

"N-no, really, I'm completely fine," the ghost urged back. "I drank quite a bit back at… my house. Before I left."

Maddie frowned. "Oh, okay. Well, if I can get you anything at some point, all you need to do is ask, okay?"

"… Absolutely," he nodded back, trying his best not to give away just how internally tortured he was over the situation. "Thank-you kindly… Maddie, was it?"

"That's the name!" Maddie smiled, and then beckoned the writer and her daughter upstairs. "Come on, we'll all sit down for a bit."

The Ghostwriter barely knew what to do with himself. He'd come to this place with a very simple objective, which consisted almost entirely of _get outside, have a look around for a few days, and don't get shot_. And now that had evolved into being indoctrinated into figuring out how to cure a serious medical condition, as well as masquerading as a normal human being and pretending to be the good friend of a ghost hunter's daughter. At no point could you really say that any one of those ideas were safe ones, with the exception of the masquerading part. That, he realised, could very well save his neck.

Worse still was the idea, however, that he might be discovered in a ghost hunter's very own home if Maddie kept on offering food or drink. Snacks or meals of any kind were a difficult thing to accept when you were incapable of consuming them, no matter how delicious they sounded.

The pair followed the mother up the stars, where Maddie found herself an adequate but not extravagantly comfortable seat in the middle of the lounge. An ominous bag of shopping still remained on the coffee table, and she pointed to it in that forcefully caring way that mothers tended to. "Do you want some cookies, John? I've just been shopping, so I have plenty."

Inevitably the answer was no.

Jazz sat nearer her mother, and the Ghostwriter decided against sitting down at all and just stood. Perhaps that would indicate that he didn't really have the time to stay, he wondered. It didn't seem to be on anyone's mind, however, as Maddie was giving him a serious look that had nothing to do with 'you should go home now'. She rested those eyes on him for a few moments, before shooting her own daughter an even harsher stare.

"I'd be correct In assuming there's _nothing _going on between the two of you, right?"

Jazz made an unmistakable choking sound and turned bright red. "You're joking, aren't you? John's in his thirties!"

"… _Something_ like that," the Ghostwriter muttered in response, with more than few hints of irritation. "We met at the library a few weeks ago, _I_ was just curious to see your laboratory."

Gradually, the woman's heightened sense of over-protectiveness went down. "Oh…" she sighed. "Well, as long as that's all it is, then that's okay then." And then she perked up a bit as soon as she realised her visitor was interested in her very specific line of work. "So, do you want to learn about ghosts? You're certainly in the right place."

The writer covered a tiny smirk. "Mm, I already know a bit," he replied, meaningfully. "I just wanted the tour, and then I was going to be off. Maybe I'll come back one day and listen, though?"

Maddie was grinning a little madly. "That would be wonderful! It's pretty rare to see people who are actually curious rather than, well, just plain terrified. You sound like you've had a few contact points with ghosts already?"

"A few," he admitted. Jazz had started biting her nails.

"So you fight ghosts, then?" Maddie quizzed, so excited she looked ready to jump out of her seat. "Often?"

The Ghostwriter nearly choked, himself. "Definitely not, that's far too dangerous! I just observe as a bystander."

"Oh…" said Maddie, visibly deflating. "My husband Jack and I… we prefer a more _action-oriented _approach. We have to, what with all the ghosts that come here to attack the city. If their nature wasn't so violent it might have been different, but there's not much we can do."

"I don't think they're _all_ violent," the Ghostwriter hazarded. Maddie raised her brow, and Jazz had done a very good job of burying her head into her hands.

"I've never seen a ghost out here who isn't. The ghosts that escape from our portal? No conscience. No mercy. And so bizarrely obsessed with something that whatever shred of humanity they had left appears to have entirely disappeared. Truth be told I'm not even sure a ghost is even the same person anymore. It's like an entirely different entity, twisted and driven by ugly, hateful emotions."

The most awkward silence any of them had ever experienced passed over the room, and the Ghostwriter had to beat down every indignant urge he had to go back to the Ghost Zone and tell Technus to hurry up with fixing the keyboard.

"I don't think they're all conscienceless monsters." Jazz pitched in, with an encouraging smile towards her guest. "Maybe… maybe all of the ghosts that have real reason to come through our portal are those that seek to cause harm. I don't think we've studied them enough to conclusively say that _none_ of them have a conscience."

"Jazz, honey…" Maddie began. "I know you liked Phantom when he was around, but he was a dangerous ghost. Frankly the city's better off without him, and now that he's gone the ghost attacks have practically halved."

"But he was a _good person_. At least he had intentions to protect everyone in this town!" Jazz urged. Maddie rolled her eyes.

"This again? He wasn't a person, dear. He was a ghost. End of discussion."

With the tension in the air thickening faster than anyone could control and the writer feeling he wouldn't be able to handle his temper much longer, he decided that perhaps now would be the best time to excuse himself. "Well, I should probably get home and… feed the cat or something," he muttered, wishing just a little bit that he owned a cat in the first place. "I hope you both have a good night."

"Wait!" Jazz cut in, before the writer even had a chance to turn and face the door. "Mum, can you finish my shift? You can finish early too, and I'll take over until Dad's on."

"Well, it is only an hour…" Maddie mused. "Sure. Don't the two of you get up to any trouble though, okay?"

"I never get up to trouble," said Jazz, without the usual amount of certainty. "I'll see you later."

"Bye, sweety," said Maddie, as her daughter and 'John' stood and headed towards the door. "Don't stay out too late, you need your sleep so you can get up in the morning."

"I won't!" called Jazz, out the door. The Ghostwriter followed, and breathed an incredibly deep sigh of relief as soon as the door was shut. Relief, however, quickly turned into indignation.

"John? Did you really have to make my name _John_?"

Jazz was beginning to turn redder than she'd been in front of her accusatory mother. "Well, you didn't give me a real name! It was the first decent-sounding real name I could think of!"

The Ghostwriter steamed a little. "Yes, but _John_? What are you going to tell her next, that my last name's _Smith_? _Doe_? And I'm _definitely _not in my thirties, by the way. I'm younger than that."

Jazz scoffed. "Under what possible definition could you be _younger _than that?"

"I'm twenty-seven," claimed the writer, crossing his arms with a huff. "_Physically_, I'm twenty-seven."

"Yeah, sure." Jazz laughed. "And what are you _actually_?"

The Ghostwriter didn't reply until Jazz, amazingly, managed to stare him down. He looked away and straight at his feet. "Sixty, okay?"

Jazz had already begun walking, and the Ghostwriter followed closely behind. "I can't believe that's all."

"Really?"

"No, it's just… I assumed most ghosts are a lot older." Jazz remarked, and upon the observation of some other people walking fairly closely to them she lowered her voice. "You must be pretty young by ghost standards."

"I am," the Writer whispered back. "But with some of the stupidity you see in the Ghost Zone, you'd think I was one of the oldest ones there. Did you know the Box Ghost is 508?" Jazz stopped walking, her mouth hanging open in horror and awe. "Yeah. Case in point."

"How could anyone be obsessed with boxes for _five centuries_?!" Jazz stammered, raising her voice now that they'd finished walking past the other pedestrian. "Wouldn't he get bored?"

The ghost put his hands up in the air. "Don't ask me. _Honestly_, don't. I might have the same capacity for obsession, but… it's for something that's intricate, a craft, something that is worked upon throughout one's life and cherished. Writing is beautiful. A box is… well, it's just a box."

"It's times like now that I _really _hope the Box Ghost hasn't escaped."

"What, so I'd have to _flick _him and watch him careen into yonder sunset?" the Ghostwriter quipped. "I might be weak. But the Box Ghost is truly pathetic."

They both stopped for a moment, each half-expecting the Box Ghost to suddenly appear, scream out his shallow threats, and attempt to attack them with a barrage of boxes. That moment thankfully never came.

"… Come on. We're going to the hospital," said Jazz eventually, finally beginning to walk again. "It's only a few blocks down the road."

The Ghostwriter dearly wanted to explore, but considering this was apparently the reason he wasn't being shot at until he returned to that dreadful dimension, he decided it was perhaps best just to follow along. Curiously, he examined the sky.

… Maybe he could be contented with this, for now.

A magnificent display of magenta and yellow lit up the afternoon atmosphere, as the sun made its decent into the horizon. Part of him couldn't quite believe he was seeing it – the Ghost Zone had no version of the sun, no version of daytime, and not the slightest trace of any sort of night. But the earth _changed_, and constantly. Ghosts, of course, didn't – unless it was to adapt to a harsher environment – and that made the Ghost Zone a very bland place to spend endless stretches of eternity.

_No wonder some of them seem to have gone insane._

"You mentioned you read a lot," Jazz mentioned casually, cutting through the silence. "How many books do you have?"

"Uhh. Billions, probably," said the Ghostwriter, as if it was a number one would just casually spit out when talking about a collection. Jazz nearly had a coronary.

"_Billions_?"

"Well, I live in a library, and they all just seem to appear there of their own accord," the writer shrugged. "Someone writes something somewhere in the world, and as soon as they say it's complete, a copy of it just ends up in the archives. So if you ever want to borrow anything… trust me, I have it."

After collecting herself and trying to act as casually as possible, Jazz decided to hazard a question. "So… do you get scientific journals? Psychology textbooks?"

"Did someone write them?" the Ghostwriter queried.

"So you have all of them!" Jazz exclaimed, excitedly.

"Somewhere," said the writer, nervously running a hand through his hair as he thought about the expanse of his collection. "_Where _is the hard part. The archives go on forever. If I'm looking for something specific, though, eventually I'll find it."

Jazz quickly filed away a mental note to ask about at least fifty different psychology books she'd been meaning to read. And then a distraction – she looked up, squinting at the sun as it caught in her eyes at the end of the day, and pointed to a large building at the end of the street. "We're almost there."

* * *

Jazz and the Ghostwriter neared Danny's room on the fifth floor of the hospital after a brief battle with reception, which involved convincing the bewildered nurses that the writer hadn't, indeed, come in because he was _asphyxiating_. After that little incident, the Ghostwriter was forced to regretfully concede that conversations like that were going to be a normal part of his life.

Jazz was forced to stand outside the room for a few minutes, where she breathed in a few gulps of sterile, foul-smelling hospital air in an attempt to get a good handle on her emotions. When questioned about having to deal with this for the past two years, she blew the writer off, and muttered something about the therapists sometimes being the truly broken ones. He didn't probe further.

"Are you okay, now?" he asked eventually, as she began to recover composure. "Unless you just want me to go in. I still don't know what you want me to do, though."

"I… no, we'll both go." Jazz confirmed. "I just want to see what you think."

The Ghostwriter regarded her sceptically, but didn't complain. Eventually Jazz summoned the courage to open the door to Danny's room.

What she never expected to see was someone else in there. An _invisible_ someone else, no less.

"You!" Jazz spat, fury drowning her delicate features. "You're the one who stole him! Where the _hell _is my little brother?!"

The Ghostwriter said nothing, but despite this the ghost seemed far more interested in him anyway. She flew within arm's length of the writer, so close that he recoiled backwards on instinct alone.

"Funny to see you here," she remarked. "Funny to see you like _that_. Did you manage to win the trust of dear little Jazz Fenton to get that wristband? Obviously she's just as naïve as she was back then, when I broke both of her arms."

"Demon ghost!" Jazz shrieked, finally seeing fit to draw the ecto-gun from the holster tied around her waist. "Give me back my -!" The gun disappeared without a trace, and Jazz was left standing in a position ready to shoot with empty hands. She moved her fingers slightly, as if she couldn't quite believe it was gone.

"Do you _really_ think I'm going to give you opportunity to hurt me after what I did to you?" the ghost woman queried, flicking long black locks of hair out of her eyes. And then she brought the same hand back so quickly into Jazz's face that the girl was sent careening into one of the hospital cupboards. The ghost turned to the Ghostwriter, again. "I told you she was naïve. And you, you're just pathetic. Where's your pride, looking like a human? Trying to camouflage with the native wildlife, are you? _What on earth are you thinking_?"

"I'm thinking I want to _help _her because she's a _fr_-!" was about a far as he got, before suffering the same fate as Jazz and finding himself up against a wall on the other side of the room. The enemy ghost flew up to the pair of them, finally returning to the visible world in full, and hovered there, tauntingly.

"My, my. We really are _weak_, aren't we?" she sneered. "Tell you what. I'm going to give you an address. I'm going to write it on a piece of paper -" she paused to scribble with a pen and notepad that had apparently been making their home in the deep pockets of her jacket, "- and then I'm going to give it to you. If you go there you might just get poor little Danny Phantom back!"

"It's a trap…" the Ghostwriter groaned. She smiled pleasantly in return.

"Oh honey. Of _course _it's a trap."

And then she disappeared into thin air, apparently having teleported entirely out of existence. A little yellow piece of note paper fluttered down onto Jazz's arm, brandishing the address in question.

"Writer…" Jazz managed, turning to face him. "… Why does she know you?"

* * *

**Author's Note:  
**A couple of things that I'll clear up now:

- My interpretation of the cannon is that ghosts can see other ghosts even if they're invisible, justified by the fact that we've never really seen ghosts fight each other using invisibility on the show. The same goes for intangibility; the only time that's useful is when dealing with humans or the real world. Ghosts have never shown an ability to phase through other ghosts or objects from the Ghost Zone, for instance.

- Ghosts can age and/or change appearance, but they tend not to without severe stress, trauma or reason, e.g. Dan Phantom going crazy and destroying everything in his path. This is referencing the fact that Desiree exists all the way back into myth, and yet still appears as a reasonably-aged woman – however all of the ghosts that appeared in TUE had aged spectacularly, and looked meaner in general. I like to think of it as a form of adaption, and that they might revert if the circumstances get better.

Yes, I think about technicalities too much.

Reviews are loved. :3


	3. Witchery

**Author's Note:  
**Another chapter. I sure am getting these out at a decent pace, aren't I? I've been aiming for about 3,000+ words per chapter but it appears the previous chapter I wrote far surpassed that. Ah well! It's actually been a long time since I've properly written a story longer than like, 1,000 words, and I'm trying to sink back into and be comfortable in my old style again. I think we're getting there, gradually.

I am musing about branching out into other fandoms later, but I'm just not quite sure how or what ones yet. I have a few half-baked DP ideas to flesh out before doing that, anyhow – not to mention stories I want to finish.

* * *

**Layman Scripts  
**A fanfic by Pseudinymous

~ **3** ~  
- _Witchery -_

* * *

A flood of people burst into the room, most of them doctors and nurses who had been on the floor at the time. While Jazz was lying up against the cabinet she'd been hurled into and displaying obvious signs of extreme pain along her back, the Ghostwriter seemed to be fairing much better. _Fortunate that ghosts are a lot more resistant to this sort of thing_, she thought absently, while a swarm of medical personnel surrounded her.

But Jazz's ability to hear or pay attention to them was gone, and her consciousness waning. Doctors were panicking at the recent ghost attack, nurses were panicking that the Ghostwriter's airways might be blocked, and the writer was panicking that someone might see fit to examine him properly.

That was the last thing she remembered before waking up in a hospital bed.

The room was light and airy, with the window wide open so that the fresh night time air could blow through, fluttering the delicate lace curtains. Obviously no one had thought to remove her contacts, because Jazz could see perfectly. She could also see what wasn't supposed to be there perfectly, too; the Ghostwriter floated invisibly with his hands held tightly behind his back, stone-faced and staring out of the window in apparent thought.

"_Hey_…" managed Jazz, quietly attempting to get his attention. When that didn't work, she raised her voice and poked his arm. This had the effect of nearly making him jump out of his own skin, although thankfully almost silently.

"Sorry, I was… somewhere else," the writer excused himself, looking down at his now-conscious company. "Are you feeling alright?"

Jazz took a moment to examine herself, noting a terrible ache in her back and neck that she'd only seemed to become aware of then. A grimace passed over her face, followed by a stare down to the floor. The unforgiving feeling of failure was swamping her mind. "She got away. I had an ecto-gun held to her head and she got away."

"She also has one of the most infuriating powers in the Ghost Zone, so don't beat yourself up too much," the Ghostwriter reasoned. "Everyone with any amount of common sense stays well away from her."

"Who is she?"

"Mirabella Spectra. Penelope Spectra's sister."

"_Spectra_?!" Jazz gasped, and then she gasped again as the sudden movement of her body sent a shiver of pain rattling up her spine. Once it had passed, she calmed down and continued, "But… they don't look anything alike."

"Ah, but neither of them use their real form. Underneath that pretty exterior they're both just shadow beings, ghosts without faces that have to create the way they look – with varying success – from the ground up."

Information raced through Jazz's mind. She knew all about Spectra, but mostly on a second-hand basis. After finally letting on that she knew Danny's secret, he'd told her about many of the ghosts he'd fought, and Spectra had gone down as one of the most despised. After hearing the stories about what she'd done, Jazz couldn't blame her little brother in the slightest; she was quite possibly the most narcissistic ghost she'd ever heard of, and misery followed wherever her vanity went. To find out that woman had a _sister_, and that that sister was responsible for stealing Danny away…

"You've probably already realised this, but her power is teleportation," the Ghostwriter went on. "In addition to that, she can also teleport anything smaller than herself… anywhere she wants. As long as it's initially within a few feet, of course."

"So _that's_ how she did it," Jazz scowled. "Wait! Don't think _you're_ getting a free pass. Why on earth did she seem to know you so well?"

The Ghostwriter crossed his arms and sighed. "Mira and I were friends once. As the fact that she threw me across the room should indicate, not anymore."

"How could you _possibly_ be friends with her?"

"_Once_!" the Ghostwriter stressed, glowering at the very idea and shaking his head. "As you grow older I'm sure you will one day learn that even though some people seem like friends in the beginning, doesn't mean they'll remain so. Things happen, circumstances change, people who receive power become drunk by it."

Jazz seemed to be pausing for a moment, thinking. "You don't seem drunk with power. And you have one of the most dangerous ones I've ever heard of."

"I like to think I'm a different person." _Well, mostly,_ the writer added mentally, thinking back to that fateful Christmas a few years ago. No need to go telling her about that, now was there? Nor was their need to tell her about numerous other incidents where he'd gotten the practice for it in the first place, although most of those boiled down to another ghost seriously ticking him off and deserving everything they got. In any case, after the jail sentence he was _really _trying to curb those anger issues. That's what mattered, right?

Jazz had closed her eyes. "I like to think you are, too."

The Fenton daughter tried to recall the incident from before clearly in her mind; it was coming through in thin slices, like tiny cross sections on an impossibly more infinite plane of existence. Yellow flashed through her brain, followed by the illusory feeling of pain and red splashed all across her vision. Jazz's head hurt slightly just thinking about it – and then there was that note, that_ yellow _note, fluttering down and landing on her leg.

_The note!_

"Where's the address she left behind?!" Jazz gasped. "We have to go and – aaghr!"

The girl collapsed back into her bed in pain, sending another wave of sharp tremors up her spine. She was too helpless to do anything about saving her little brother. And it pained her even more to realise that Danny must have been injured like this quite often, but a combination of inhuman healing speeds and an insane amount of willpower had resulted in him being able to keep going, keep saving people. But here she was, crippled in a bed, unable to summon the strength for him that he so surely would have displayed for her.

A single frustrated tear trickled down her face. Why did she have to be so _useless_?

"Calm yourself. You're in no condition to even be thinking about that note."

"I don't care what condition I'm in! He's my brother and I just don't have the _willpower_ to get out of this hospital bed!" Jazz rallied, at full volume. The Ghostwriter recoiled immediately.

"Hush, woman! Do you want this place overrun with-"

Too late.

A nurse burst into the room. She was dressed in frumpy-looking scrubs and had a haughty look on her face, staring straight at the source of the problem. "What's all this racket?!" she demanded, looking around for the conversation partner that had gotten her patient into a rage such that she would scream out to the heavens. The Ghostwriter floated there, a sardonic look on his face as he observed her from his corner, in between the cupboard and Jazz's bed.

Jazz didn't say a thing, and of course that would never satisfy the nurse. She went right up to Jazz's bedside to question her, and the Ghostwriter sunk into the corner even further, squashing himself up against the wall. But the nurse (her name was Janette, Jazz realised, as her badge got ever-closer to her face) was suddenly distracted.

"I don't know what you're squawking about, but by _God_ it's awfully cold over here!" she exclaimed, making a feeble attempt to wrap the scrubs around herself to be warmer.

Jazz wore perhaps the most innocent look on her face the world had ever known. "Is it?" she asked, looking genuinely confused.

The writer, however, had a life that had rarely been graced with such subtlety, and simply wanted the nurse out of the picture. So he looked at his hand sceptically for a moment, and then grinned wickedly as he turned it intangible and phased it straight through the top of the woman's back and raked his fingers through her neck.

She shrieked, jumped sideways and nearly fell over Jazz's bed. Not another word was said – escape was apparently the only option. The nurse left the room promptly and never returned.

"Problem solved," the Ghostwriter proclaimed, chuckling slightly. "Oh, don't look at me like that! I'm a ghost, scaring people near to death is apparently what we do. It's the Natural Order of Things."

"It wasn't necessary," Jazz glared.

He frowned at her, and sulked a little. "I was only trying to get you to laugh."

"Yeah, well great job with that," the girl huffed, and turned her neck away – however tentatively. "We have to find Danny. I'm sure, I'm _sure _she's got his ghost half stashed away somewhere and that's why he can't wake up!"

"But it's a trap," said the Ghostwriter, warily. "Jasmine, we cannot just go gallivanting into whatever that address is. I've _seen _Mira's traps, those things will honest-to-God get you _killed_. I've nearly been killed by one! Yes, _me_. And many other ghosts like me!"

"Really? But, but you can't-"

"Want a bet?" the writer ask, face coloured with all sorts of dread. "Some of the things I know would give you nightmares. You might want the willpower now to ignore your injury and go save your brother now, but if I told you everything, you'd be glad you don't have it. _I'm _glad you don't have it."

"But that makes it even worse!" Jazz sputtered. "What on earth do you think she's doing to my little brother?!"

The Ghostwriter deflated. "In any case, you're incapacitated. I overheard the doctors saying it'd be a few weeks before you even recover."

For Jazz, the world had descended into chaos. Just seeing that ghost here again, present and teasing her in such a manner – that was the worst part of it. If that had never happened, had there been absolutely no lead to follow, then she could probably have just laid in this hospital bed for however long it would take. But now that she had this lead… time, it just wasn't a luxury. A few more tears escaped, and she closed her eyes, trying her best to stem them before they really got going.

Unfortunately for all involved, a few things come from being socially stunted, and not being able to react appropriately to someone else's sadness was one of them. The writer felt positively awful seeing the girl here like this, tearing herself up. But he didn't know what to say and the only other option was totally out of the question.

… Or was it?

Pros and cons were everywhere. In fact part of him knew it was a spectacularly bad idea; for one he had no medical experience whatsoever and really didn't know how much pain this was going to cause the girl. On the other hand, she would be fixed up almost immediately and _he'd_ at least get a chance to check up with Technus about his keyboard. After all, it could be the game-changer in this whole situation, and apart from some strange and somewhat dangerous _kinks_, the keyboard was very close to working when he left.

Oh, but she was not going to like this. Not at all.

"Jasmine," hazarded the Ghostwriter, grabbing her attention. "… What if I said there was a way we could fix up your back faster. _Much _faster."

Jazz's eyes flung wide. "What are you talking about?"

"Well… there is a ghost known as the Witch Doctor. He lives in my area of the Ghost Zone and is said to be able to heal any injury in a matter of seconds – even advanced ones that ghosts can't heal quickly themselves."

"Bring him here." Jazz commanded. "Give him the wristband, tell him to-"

"It's not that easy, girl," the Ghostwriter cut in, darkly. "He absolutely refuses to come out of his den, for whatever reasons he may have. I haven't ever even _seen _him – have only heard from word of mouth, and flown past that little burrow he has. If you want to ask him to mend you, I'm going to have to take you there myself."

Panic flooded Jazz's face, turning her pale and even making her shed a few drops of sweat. "Like, inside the Ghost Zone?" she asked, voice high. "Are you serious?"

"The Ghost Zone isn't as bad as you think, you know."

"Yeah, only if you're one of the native inhabitants!" Jazz rallied. "Plus, I turned all of those ghosts away! They'll _recognise _me! Some of them probably even want me _dead_."

As reluctant as the Ghostwriter was to admit it, the girl had a very good point; ghosts were well-known for being less forgiving than they ought to be, and given that a large majority of them continued existing for a very good portion of eternity, grudges could last for centuries. On the other hand, however, it wasn't as if they were going to be inside the zone for _long_ – the Witch Doctor's den was less than a minute's flight from the portal, and on top of that many of the inhabitants knew that pissing off a ghost that could make you do whatever he wanted generally wasn't the best of ideas.

"Look…" he began. "If I'm to be honest, I'm more concerned about how your back will fare on the way; I can fly as smoothly as possible but inevitably me carrying you is not going to be ideal. But we'll be in and out of the Ghost Zone in less than ten minutes, and you'll be better."

Jazz was still pale, and now she wasn't talking.

Noises were accumulating outside the door. This wasn't particularly concerning until the same nurse that had been in there before could be heard outside, screaming "I don't _care _if you can't detect it, there's a _ghost _in there; I felt it! You're the Fentons, aren't you?! Go hunt it down!"

The Ghostwriter and Jazz exchanged looks of horror. "Oh ye gods, they got here so fast…" the Ghostwriter whispered. "Come _on_ Jasmine, _choose_!"

"I'll go!" Jazz stammered, now apparently far more concerned about her own parents bursting in. The Ghostwriter nodded.

The door slammed open, but by that point Jazz had completely disappeared from sight and the dysfunctional pair had already made their way out the window. They were quite high above Amity Park now – something Jazz certainly didn't relish in knowing – but her back didn't seem to be reacting nearly as much as either party thought it would, either.

All in all, it wasn't too bad.

The moon was out – full, the writer noted. Being out on his own tonight while the wind was low and the sky was clear would have been a blessing, but… as he looked at Jazz trying her best to stay as still as possible so as not to hurt her back more, and after knowing that Mira had been behind all of this… it wasn't exactly something one could ignore. At the very least, he felt he had somewhat of a duty to keep the Fenton sister safe, if from no one else but herself. Even when she became able-bodied again, he _still_ wasn't going to let her walk blindly into Mira's trap. There would be another way. A _safer _way.

"I always hated it when Danny turned me invisible or phased me through something… it's so _cold_." Jazz mumbled quietly, cutting through the Ghostwriter's thoughts. She wasn't shivering, however.

"I'd stop, but we're completely out in the open…" the Ghostwriter replied, thoughtfully. "We're not too far away, though. Your house's roof really is something else."

"… The Emergency Ops Centre…"

"Is that what it's called? It looks like a UFO."

"You're not the first person to say that…" Jazz chuckled. The writer smiled back, encouragingly.

_So, I'm a person now, am I? That's nice to know._

"Writer, do you even realise how cold you are? Can you feel temperature at all?"

The Ghostwriter looked down at her and thought about it. It was something he hadn't thought about in years, mainly because the temperature was so constant in the Ghost Zone that one could be tricked into thinking it had ceased to exist. On the other hand, when a fluctuation was present it just didn't seem to _register_ like it used to. For one, even when it was extreme there just didn't seem to be any pain involved.

"Well, in a _way_…" he trailed off there, and began a descent towards the Fenton Family home. "If this is worrying you so much, it's probably going to be a bit too cold for you in the Ghost Zone. We should have some time before your parents get back, so I'll stop and pick up a jacket first."

"Thanks…" came a small reply. She sounded somewhat weak.

The house was empty on the inside. With the girl's direction the pair eventually ended up in her room, and finally the ghost reappeared and put her down on her own bed. She was, of course, just as incapable of movement as before.

"Do you mind if I retrieve a jacket from your closet?" he asked politely, not wishing to pry where he wasn't wanted. Jazz nodded the slightest of nods.

Her collection of clothes consisted mainly of black shirts and jeans. What was beside them, however, was a little worrying; a large variety of ecto-weapons were stashed away in there, like a personal weapons vault but without the security. With a grimace, he realised that without his keyboard he was seriously unequipped to be challenged by anything; should something be wanting a fight, he had little means of defending himself. So he took one of the smaller guns and a holster that could attach to one's belt, then went about finding Jazz some warmer clothing. Eventually he came across a black jacket with studs and a pair of knitted mittens, which seemed like they might come in useful as well. He pulled them out, and hung them over the end of the bed.

It was at that point he realised the difficult part about this.

"… So, how much _can _you move without pain, exactly?"

The look he got back seemed to do well enough at implying that she could _not_ move without pain.

"Well, do you think perhaps you could endure it long enough to get this coat over you?"

Jazz was eyeing it as though it were some type of medieval torture device. "Good luck."

_Unless…_

The Ghostwriter held the jacket up in front of himself for a moment, tilted his head, and thought. And then he turned it intangible, phased Jazz's arms into the sleeves, and managed to get it around her with perhaps the most minimal back movement imaginable.

"I've gotta say… I'm actually impressed," said Jazz, a little amazed. "Danny never thought of solutions like that."

The writer just shrugged in return. "Being able to think your way to a solution rather than fight your way to one is often a better option. Although with that said, I'm glad your brother can fight, given how many ghosts have been after his head."

"Pretty much…" Jazz sighed. "Can you put the mittens on? I can't reach."

"Oh, right," said the writer, who grabbed them and quickly stuffed them over the Fenton girl's hands. "There, that should help. Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah, much!"

_Not for long, because I'm about to phase you into your basement_, thought the Ghostwriter, a little guiltily.

He picked her up once more, as gently as possible. Jazz let out a slight grunt of pain but otherwise didn't make a sound, and so they dropped, not quickly but not slowly either, two floors down in the Fenton's basement laboratory. The swirling mass of green of the ghost portal was right in front of them, and now the girl seemed even more reluctant than ever.

"What if the other ghosts attack just because you've got me?"

"They won't. Or at least, they'll probably stop quick-smart when I tell them about Mira," he assured, with a frown. "Trust me, most won't even have the slightest concern. The only reason I could imagine any of them caring is plain curiosity."

She didn't say anything else. For a moment the Ghostwriter took some time to reabsorb his surroundings, and realised with a feeling akin to horror that they had left his book down here and now it was _gone_. Deciding not to worry his companion about such a comparatively trivial matter, however, seemed like a better idea.

The writer refocused on the task at hand. "Okay," he said. "We're going in."

The cold atmosphere washed over Jazz, although it wasn't nearly as cold as the writer himself and the jacket and gloves kept her small body warm enough. Swirling green and floating purple objects were all that could be seen for miles around, but the Ghostwriter wasn't slowing down and she didn't particularly get a chance to look. For this, she was a little glad. Jazz found the whole place dank and eerie despite the persistent green light that permeated everything, and whenever she saw one of the dimension's inhabitants floating close by she did her very best not to make eye contact. Goodness-knows she'd probably turned back some of them.

"Almost there," said the writer, quietly.

They changed course around a random floating rock to come to a relatively isolated little island. It indeed had a burrow in it – a very strangely decorated one at that – and it reminded Jazz somewhat of a hobbit hole. It wasn't nasty or rundown, it was just comfortable-looking. Almost a little welcoming, when you compared it with the rest of the Ghost Zone. If nothing else she was glad to arrive, as her back had gotten progressively worse as they'd flown.

The Ghostwriter landed gently on the island, and made a start towards the door. Before he could even knock, a voice from the inside: "Come in," it said, although whoever owned it sounded somewhat distracted.

The inside was somewhat dank with the exception of a blinding white light over a physician's chair. Despite this, however, it didn't give off the same feel as an unfolding horror story, with the small exception of the Witch Doctor himself; he wore a beak mask straight out of the Renaissance, and craned over his patient as he held his hand just above their stomach. A strange green outpouring of energy filtered downwards, healing before their eyes a large tear that seemed to have almost cut the patient in half.

The patient was Ember. Jazz realised this with some trepidation, but was unable to struggle. So she just watched on as the Ghostwriter held her, as the wound disappeared without a trace.

"This Skulker fellow. It's not my job to tell you what to do with yourself, Ms McLain, but I suggest you stay away from him," said the Witch Doctor, a little… was that annoyed? "It wouldn't do to see a pretty young thing like you here again, now would it?"

Ember said nothing, and got out of the chair indignantly. It was there she caught Jazz's eye, forcing herself to double-take. "You?" she stammered. "What's the dipstick's sister doing here? This is the Ghost Zone! Get out of our-"

"_All are welcome in this practice, Ms McLain_," warned the Witch Doctor, in a voice that suggested he could just as easily undo the injury he'd mended, and probably make it far worse in the process. "Unless you want me to turn you away the next time your terrible excuse for a boyfriend decides to take his anger out on you, I suggest you cut the racism and have a good long think about what I told you."

She harrumphed, picked up her guitar from where it was resting against the wall, and tried her best to stomp her way out in the daintiest way possible. The Ghostwriter stared at her all the way. The Witch Doctor watched her warily, as well.

"Now…" he said, and after a quick look at Jazz, he already seemed to understand. "I assume this young lady needs treatment, then? Her back is in quite poor shape."

The pair nodded, although Jazz's was weak. "She was thrown into a cupboard by Mirabella Spectra," the Ghostwriter supplied. A flash of understanding could be seen even through the Witch Doctor's mask.

"I see. Lay her face-down on this chair here. Just let me alter the shape of it a bit…" he trailed off, pushing a few levers and flattening out the surface space. "There, that should do. Now, gently does it…"

The doctor put a hand over the sore area of her spine as they moved her, and just like that the pain was gone. She could move, adjust herself, and lie down without the slightest complaint, and it was at that point Jazz realised just how bad her back had been. Unfortunately all the pain flooded back as soon as the doctor removed his hand, and she cringed at its sudden return.

"I'll be frank," said the Witch Doctor, apparently frowning under the mask. "Humans are much more difficult to heal than ghosts, thanks to some pretty terrible biology and a long natural healing cycle. You will need rest for at least sixteen hours, and during that time your back should remain as still as possible. There might be some weakness after that period, but strength should return properly after another few hours. Is that perfectly clear?"

Jazz's spirits were crestfallen, but it was still much better than what the doctors in Amity were offering her. "I – yes, okay," she conceded.

"Now, about compensation…" the doctor went on. "I don't use traditional forms of payment – in fact I only take payment in the form of an IOU. One of you will be required to do for me one favour in return for the treatment, at a time that suits me. Do you accept?"

The Ghostwriter had heard about these; oftentimes they turned out to be small errands although occasionally they involved more complicated tasks. It stemmed mostly from the Witch Doctor's complete unwillingness to leave his practice, and when the debt was to be collected his assistant would track you down and supply you with the task at hand. It honestly wasn't the worst arrangement around, so he nodded. "I'll take the debt."

"Good, good," said the Witch Doctor, not unpleasantly. "We'll get started then. You shouldn't feel any pain – if you do, I suggest you speak up. Is that clear?"

Jazz nodded, and the doctor got to work.

It was over in five minutes, and Jazz realised very quickly that she wasn't just not feeling pain – she wasn't feeling _anything at all_. By the time he was done, she was a little bit surprised at how simple it all seemed to be. Pain returned somewhat, but was so minimal that it could almost be ignored. _Almost_.

"That should accelerate the natural healing cycle immensely." He declared, with a smile under that dreadful mask. "Now go and rest. Please try to follow my instructions as closely as possible, or else it will take even longer."

The pair thanked him. Carefully, the Ghostwriter picked Jazz up again, turned around, and started back to the human world. For this, Jazz was infinitely grateful.

* * *

The Ghostwriter stared at the portal. Something was wrong – it didn't look the same as it normally did. It was as if… there was something solid on the other side. He'd almost dropped Jazz at the sight of it, and could feel his own stomach steadily knotting and eating away at itself. It was the first time he'd felt genuinely sick in a _very _long time.

"What's wrong?" Jazz asked, staring on the portal. "It looks different from this side, doesn't it?"

"That's the problem, it _shouldn't,_" said the Ghostwriter, paling even further. Hesitantly he flew up to it, raised a hand, and attempted to pass through. But even when intangible he was met with a thick sheet of particularly solid steel. "No," he whispered. "Everyone said the gate was _broken_, that it hadn't been fixed in ages…"

Jazz was dead silent, the reality of the situation hitting her like a tonne of bricks. Her complexion was beginning to rival that of her companion's. And then a presence, somehow more chilling than any ghost Jazz had known. She looked up and saw a face she never wanted to see again.

"It _was_ broken…" said Mirabella Spectra, an awful grin gracing her lips. "At least, until I had something to do with it."

* * *

**Author's Note:  
**ALL the foreshadowing! :o

I started this without much aim or direction. Oh how quickly that has changed – this fic is going to have a lot of familiar faces. I want to make the dynamics in the Ghost Zone a bit more real, rather than just the usual It's Filled With Terrifying Monsters That Will Hunt Down And Eat You. I mean, well, _yes_, but somewhere in there they obviously have a system that… at least it tries to work, okay? They do their best. xD

Also, I'm suddenly finding it impossible to write chapters under 4,500 words for this thing. Can't really complain with that, considering 14 year-old me used to post nothing over 1,500 words… must be all those dips into the NaNoWriMo. Or maybe six years just does that to you, eventually. I like being older.


End file.
